


The Proposal

by Nana_41175



Series: Captive Hearts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Snippet, blindfolding, captive hearts universe, happily ever after scenario
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3351986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nana_41175/pseuds/Nana_41175
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I know, I know. The ending for Captive Hearts is still quite a long way away, but Maia (Meetingyourmaker) presented me with this gorgeous artwork as a Valentine's Day gift and I just couldn't resist weaving a little snippet around it (and this is probably the fastest I have ever written, finishing under barely an hour). It’s set long after Captive Hearts and it’s a glimpse into Monseigneur and John’s happily-ever-after (as impossible as it sounds as of now, and after all that angst I thought a little bit of sweetness is in order). Dedicated, of course, to Maia, who is such an inspiration. Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Proposal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meetingyourmaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetingyourmaker/gifts).



Special thanks to [**Meetingyourmaker**](meetingyourmaker.tumblr.com) for the gorgeous artwork-- truly an inspiration!

 

"Be still, John," warned Monseigneur, his voice a special blend of darkness— low and soft, melting sweetly around John as he turned sightlessly towards the lips that whispered into his ear.

Being soft, the words were also a command, steel encased in velvet, and that was what had triggered a reaction from John, causing him to writhe against the silken bonds that held his hands above his head. The blindfold had come first, so he never saw this coming. 

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," he muttered. "We never agreed to  _this.”_

John felt those long-fingered hands abruptly  stop their slow exploration of his body and he found he had to bite back a sharp word of protest, for consistency’s sake more than anything else.

"Oh?" came Monseigneur’s voice, situated slightly higher this time as he lifted himself away to regard John, lying pinned beneath him from the waist down. To the uninitiated, that single word seemed innocuous enough, but John knew it for what it was: an ominous warning, even a threat.

If he wasn’t careful, John might find the amorous evening terminated prematurely.  

"Speak plainly if you’ve got something to say." There, a challenge if ever John was issued one.

John almost grinned but he pressed on, “blindfolding is one thing, and I have nothing against that as you very well know, but to have my hands out of the way as well? You must think it’s your lucky night.”

"Oh, I can assure you, it is," Monseigneur replied silkily, bending down to leisurely tongue John’s nipple until it pebbled roughly in his mouth. John could not help the harsh intake of breath, though he resisted the urge to arch against that cruel, teasing mouth; to grind himself against the unclothed erection that was so blatantly initiating a rhythm against his body.

"Blindfolding or binding my hands. Pick one. Just one."

Monseigneur laughed, deep-throated and full of dark mirth, obviously enjoying himself. “Since when,” he asked, “did you think you can start dictating your own terms, John?”

John felt the pads of Monseigneur’s fingers against his parted mouth. For all his taunting words, Monseigneur’s touch was softly caressing. John felt Monseigneur ease his weight off him  as he settled down beside John. He could imagine Monseigneur lying there on his side with lazy, feline grace, on one elbow, with his head resting on the palm of one hand, the other hand gliding maddeningly delicate fingers across John's mouth. The mental image inflamed him further, and John could hear his own eager breaths, almost panting. Once upon a time, he would have been disgusted with himself at his apparent lack of control. That time, fortunately or unfortunately, had long since passed.

A finger teasingly outlined John’s lips but made no move to enter his mouth. Ruthlessly suppressing any sound that might emerge from his throat, John touched the fingertip, feather-light, with the tip of his tongue in clear and open invitation but Monseigneur was having none of it. “Since I'm in luck tonight, I am inclined to be generous,” Monseigneur continued smoothly as he withdrew his fingers from John's mouth. “I’m giving you one chance, John— just one— to make me change my mind and consider your proposal. First, which shall it be? Hands or eyes?”

"Untie my hands."

"Why should I?"

"Because." John swallowed and licked his lips, the feel of his tongue reminiscent of the touch of Monseigneur's fingers, the sensation so fleeting that it was already transforming into a mere memory. "Because I want to do things to you with them."

A breath of amusement from Monseigneur as he trailed his lips down John’s chest. “Interesting, though hardly informative. Pray elaborate.”

"I want to touch you, without benefit of sight," John began. "Just like that first time."

He felt Monseigneur pause in his ministrations and he was sure that Sherlock was remembering that time as well, so long ago it seemed— of Tarasque, and John’s absolute, blind trust in a stranger who was not a stranger at all.

That time when it became so painfully clear that the kind of love they had was something that came only once in a lifetime, possibly even less; that it was worth killing for, dying for.

"I want to glide my fingers through your hair," John continued, "and remember the curls that you’d thoughtlessly shorn off, that first time. The softness of your lashes over closed eyes, the sharpness of your cheekbones, your sculpted lips. No wonder you wouldn’t let me touch your face then. I would have guessed, though you’d take my hands and kiss away the recognition before it could sink in, I’m sure. Instead, you let me touch you— the planes of your chest, your back, your long, hard, lovely cock. I never guessed it was you. You were that sure of yourself. You let me kiss your lips and take your cock in my mouth. That first time I ever tasted you, remember? I want to do it all again, take the same blind journey, slower this time so I might savour you properly, with experience serving as my eyes and my hands—"

That was as far as John got before he felt fingers tearing at the silk that bound his wrists to the bedpost.

"I’ve convinced you, then," John said, sounding almost disbelieving as he felt his arms land bonelessly on either side of his head.

"Well done," Monseigneur said shortly. "Just make sure you live up to your words."

John quickly hitched up, still blindfolded, feeling his shirt hanging from his elbows in a state of ruin. Never mind that now. He had other, far more urgent matters to attend to as his questing fingers grazed Monseigneur's face (he'd taken off that damned mask, thank God), as he ran his hands down greedily over Monseigneur’s chest, as he tilted his head and felt Monseigneur cradle the side of his head with gentle fingers, as he sought blindly, hungrily, for Monseigneur’s kiss-- a soft press of smiling lips against his own that promised to ripen into something more.

John broke the kiss just long enough to growl, “haven’t I always lived up to expectations?”


End file.
